MISHKA TURNS UP
"You must have found Cornish history very fascinating, Maurice," Mary
declared at breakfast-time next morning. "Jim says it was nearly twelve
when you got back. You bad boy to keep such late hours, after you've
been so ill, too!"
"I'm all right again now," I protested. "And the vicar certainly is a
very interesting companion."
There were a couple of letters, one from the _Courier_ office, and
another from Harding, Lord Southbourne's private secretary, and both
important in their way.
Harding wrote that Southbourne would be in town at the end of the week,
_en route_ for Scotland, and wished to see me if I were fit for service.
"A soft job this time, a trip to the States, so you'll be able to
combine business with pleasure."
Under any other circumstances I could have done with a run home; but
even while I read the letter I decided that Southbourne would have to
entrust the matter--whatever it might be--to some one else.
I opened the second letter, a typed note, signed by Fenning the news
editor, enclosing one of the printed slips on which chance callers have
to write their name and business. I glanced at that first, and found it
filled in with an almost indecipherable scrawl. I made out the name and
address right enough as "M. Pavloff, Charing Cross Hotel," and puzzled
over a line in German, which I at length translated as "bearing a
message from Johann." Now who on earth were Pavloff and Johann?
"Dear Wynn," the note ran:
"One of your Russian friends called here to-night, and
wanted your address, which of course was not given. I saw
him--a big surly-looking man, who speaks German fairly well,
but would not state his business--so I promised to send
enclosed on to you.
"Hope you're pulling round all right!
"Yours sincerely,
"WALTER FENNING."
A big surly-looking man. Could it be Mishka? I scarcely dared hope it
was, remembering how and where I parted from him; but that underlined
"Johann" might--must mean "Ivan," otherwise the Grand Duke Loris. To
give the German rendering of the name was just like Mishka, who was the
very embodiment of caution and taciturnity.
"Well, I've got my marching orders," I announced. "I'll have to go back
to London to-day, Mary, to meet Southbourne. Where's the time-table?"
Mary objected, of course, on the score that I was not yet strong enough
for work, and I reassured her.
"Nonsense, dear; I'm all right, and I've been idle too long."
"Idle! When you've turned out that Russian series."
"A month ago, and I haven't done a stroke since."
"But is this anything special?" she urged. "Lord Southbourne is not
sending you abroad again,--to Russia?"
"No fear of that, little woman; and if he did they would stop me at the
frontier, so don't worry. Harding mentioned the States in his note."
"Oh, that would be lovely!" she assented, quite reassured. I was
thankful that she and Jim were settled down in this out-of-the-way place
for the next few weeks, any way. It would be easy to keep them in
ignorance of my movements, and, once away, they wouldn't expect to hear
much of me. In my private capacity I was a proverbially remiss
correspondent.
They both came with me the seven-mile drive to the station; and even
Jim, to my relief, didn't seem to have the least suspicion that my
hurried departure was occasioned by any other reason than that I had
given.
Anne's name had never been mentioned between him and myself since my
release. Perhaps he imagined I was forgetting her, though Mary knew
better.
I sent a wire from Exeter to "M. Pavloff," and when I arrived at
Waterloo, about half-past ten at night, I drove straight to the Charing
Cross Hotel, secured a room there, and asked for Herr Pavloff.
I was taken up to a private sitting-room, and there, right enough, was
Mishka himself. In his way he was as remarkable a man as his master; as
imperturbable, and as much at home in a London hotel, as in the cafe
near the Ismailskaia Prospekt in Petersburg.
He greeted me with a warmth that I felt to be flattering from one of his
temperament. In many ways he was a typical Russian, almost servile, in
his surly fashion, towards those whom he conceived to be immeasurably
his superiors in rank; more or less truculent towards every one else;
and, as a rule, suspicious of every one, high or low, with whom he came
in contact, save his master, and, I really believe, myself.
At an early stage in our acquaintanceship he had abandoned the air of
sulky deference which he had shown when we first met on the car
returning to Dunaburg after the accident, and had treated me more or
less _en camarade_, though in a kind of paternal manner; and yet I doubt
if he was my senior in years. He was a man of considerable education,
too, though he was usually careful to conceal the fact. To this day I do
not know the exact position he held in his master's service. It may
perhaps be described as that of confidential henchman,--a mediaeval
definition, but in Russia one is continually taken back to the Middle
Ages. One thing, at least, was indubitable,--his utter devotion to his
master.
"So, the little man kept his word, and sent for you. That is well. And
you have come promptly; that also is well. It is what you would do," he
said, eying me quite affectionately. "We did not expect to meet
again,--and in England, _hein_?"
"That we didn't!" I rejoined. "Say, Mishka, how did you get clear; and
how did you know where to find me?"
"One thing at a time. First, I have brought you a letter. Read it."
With exasperating deliberation he fetched out a bulky pocket-book, and
extracted therefrom a packet, which proved to be a thick cream envelope,
carefully protected from soilure by an outer wrapping of paper.
Within was a letter written in French, and in a curiously fine, precise
caligraphy. It was dated August 10th, from the Castle of Zostrov, and
it conveyed merely an invitation to visit the writer, and the assurance
that the bearer would give me all necessary information.
"I can offer you very little in the way of entertainment, unless you
happen to be a sportsman, which I think is probable. There is game in
abundance, from bear downwards," was the last sentence.
It was a most discreet communication, signed merely with the initial
"L."
"Read it," I said, handing it to Mishka. He glanced through it, nodded,
and handed it back. He knew its contents before, doubtless; but still I
gathered that he could read French as well as German.
"Well, are you coming?" he asked.
"Why, certainly; but what about the information his Highness mentions?"
He put up his hand with a swift, warning gesture, and glanced towards
the door, muttering:
"There is no need of names or titles."
"Or of precautions here!" I rejoined impatiently. "Remember, we are
in England, man!"
"True, I forgot; but still, caution is always best. About this
information. What do you wish to know?"
"Why, everything, man; everything! How did you escape? What
is--he--doing at this place; have you news of _her_? That first,
and above all!"
"That I cannot give, for I have it not. I think he knows somewhat,
and if that is so he himself will tell you. But I have heard
nothing--nothing! For the rest, I crawled further into the forest, and
lay quiet there. I heard enough through the night to know somewhat at
least that was befalling, but I kept still. What could I have done to
aid? And later, I made my way to a place of safety; and thence, in due
time, to Zostrov, where I joined my master. It is one of his estates,
and he is banished there, for how long? Who can say? Till those about
the Tzar alter their minds, or till he himself sees reason to go
elsewhere! They dare do nothing more to him, openly, for he is a prince
of the blood, when all is said, and the Tzar loves him; so does the
Tzarina (God guard her), though indeed that counts for little! It is not
much, this banishment,--to him at least. It might have been worse. And
he is content, for the present. He finds much work ready to his hand. We
get news, too; much more news than some imagine,--the censor among them.
We heard of your deliverance almost as soon as it was accomplished, and,
later, of your--what do you call it?"
"Acquittal?" I suggested.
"That would be the word; you were proved innocent."
"Not exactly; there was not sufficient evidence of my guilt and so I was
discharged," I answered; and as I spoke I remembered that, even now, I
was liable to be rearrested on that same charge, since I had not been
tried and acquitted by a jury.
"We know, of course," he continued, "that you did not murder that swine
Selinski."
"How do you know that?" I demanded.
"That I may not tell you, but this I may: if you had been condemned,
well--"
He blew a big cloud of smoke from his cigar, a cloud that obscured his
face, and out of it he spoke enigmatically:
"Rest assured you will never be hung for the murder of Vladimir
Selinski, although twenty English juries might pronounce you guilty!
But enough of that. The question is will you return with me, or will you
not? He has need of you; or thinks he has, which is the same thing; and
I can smooth the way. There will be risks."
"I know all about that," I interrupted impatiently. "And I shall go with
you, of course!"
"Of course," he acquiesced phlegmatically. But, as he spoke, he held out
his big blunt hand; and I gripped it hard.